Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory
by RedStockingsAndAWimple
Summary: "Why do men fight who were born to be brothers?" - James Longstreet


"This isn't important. I should just leave it alone."

Swallowing hard, Alfred opened the office door slightly. He peered through the crack. Mr. Lincoln sat at his desk, his eyes pouring over the large number of papers and letters scattered across it. Alfred grinned at the sight. Mr. Lincoln was always very productive, constantly busy with something. If he was not working, he had a book in his hands. Alfred liked that about him. His thirst for knowledge, combined with his relaxed habits, were a refreshing change. He continued to watch the man for several minutes. He seemed occupied, not a great surprise since he had to put a presidential cabinet together and figure out a way to deal with the states. That was more than most men could handle on a normal day. Alfred's little problem seemed absolutely petty in comparison.

He never thought things would go the way they did. Of course, the tension, resentment, and anger had been steadily escalating for decades now. Sometimes, Alfred wondered if his land had ever been wholly unified. Maybe when the Declaration was agreed on, and to the best of his knowledge, everyone had loved Washington. But then Washington had been so easy to love, at least from Alfred's point of view. Jefferson, too, even though he had almost as many troubles as Adams did. Things had started gradually growing uneven; by the time Jackson had come in, Alfred realized the situation was bad. No one seemed to have any idea of how to deal with it, even as the problems continued to escalate.

He had not been so naïve to believe that everything would get better the moment Mr. Lincoln was elected. With the Illinois lawyer's strong stance on slavery in the territories, Alfred guessed the tensions would get worse before they got better. But secession had been a surprise. One had been bad enough, but as soon as the new year started, others also broke away. Mississippi, Florida, and Alabama joined South Carolina. Alfred knew they would not be the only ones.

The strangest part of it was that he felt no pain. From his history lessons with Arthur, he thought he would be experiencing splitting headaches, confusion, changes in personality, and intense pain. By all accounts, he should have experienced excruciating agony the moment South Carolina seceded. Yet there was nothing. Not even the slightest twinge of discomfort. All he felt was a strange sense of numbness, like something had disappeared before he had even realized it was missing. Alfred did not know why he felt this way. The people of the South were his citizens, even if he often felt like he could not connect to them.

Maybe the reason he felt no pain was because it was impossible for a few states to break off and form a new nation. It would be like cutting off his hand and expecting it to survive apart from his body. A colony declaring independence was one thing; he and his people had formed their own identity, separate from Arthur and his citizens. There could be no nation of South Carolina, Mississippi, Florida, or anyone else. It simply could not happen.

Which was why Alfred needed to leave Mr. Lincoln alone and deal with his personal problems himself.

"But as president-elect, shouldn't he have an interest in my peace of mind?" he thought. He glanced down at the paper in his hand. "And this is badly affecting my peace of mind."

Alfred gathered his courage and knocked on the door. Without waiting for a reply, he stepped inside. Lincoln immediately rose, dropping the letter he was reading onto the desk. Taking off his spectacles with one hand, he extended the other. A warm smile spread across his face, instantly putting Alfred more at ease.

"America, this is unexpected. How are you?" he asked, giving Alfred's hand a firm shake.

"I am all right, sir. Mostly all right." He hesitated for a moment, trying to think of what he should do. Talk to Mr. Lincoln some more and gradually come around to the subject? That had never been his style. If there was a problem, it needed to be addressed head-on. Delaying and beating around the bush never accomplished anything. He just hoped Mr. Lincoln would not think him a complete idiot for coming to him with this.

With a deep breath, he thrust the paper out. It was wrinkled from being held so tightly. "Read it. Please," he quickly added. Mr. Lincoln's eyes widened in surprise. He took the paper from his hands. Replacing his spectacles back on his nose, he sat down and began to read. Alfred slipped his hands into his pockets. The waiting made him nervous, so he rocked on the balls of his feet as his gaze flitted around the office. A tight knot of worry and anticipation formed in the pit of his stomach. "Mr Lincoln is going to think I am an idiot," he thought. "There is no way around it. I should never have come to him with this. I should have figured out what to do myself." Part of him was tempted to snatch the paper back and run out, claiming he had made a mistake and apologizing for wasting the man's time. "No," he thought, gritting his teeth. "I need to stay. I made my choice, and I have to stick to it." He sighed inwardly. "Please, please be finished soon, sir."

After what seemed like an hour, Mr. Lincoln handed the paper back. Several more minutes past as Mr. Lincoln sat quietly in thought. The lines in his forehead deepened. His fingertips pressed together. Alfred bit his bottom lip, unsure of what to say.

"Well?" he asked.

"It is an invitation to a birthday party," Mr. Lincoln remarked.

"I know!" Alfred said. "What I wanted to know was what I should do about it?"

Mr. Lincoln frowned. "What do you mean, America?"

Alfred looked down at the crumpled, worn sheet. "I need your advice on this. I have no idea what to do. I don't even know this…" he glanced down at the name, "Alexander John Braxton of Braxton Place, Charleston."

"You mean received an invitation to the birthday celebration of this Mr. Braxton, and you do not know him?" Mr. Lincoln looked perplexed.

"No!" Alfred insisted. "That is the strange thing. I have no idea who he could be. I do not remember ever seeing or meeting anyone named that. The fact that he is from South Carolina makes it worse." He shrugged. "After everything that happened last month, I'm feeling a little worried."

Mr. Lincoln's eyebrows rose slightly. "Mr. Braxton does not by chance know who you are?"

"How can he? That is not the sort of thing I tell anyone. Of course, if anyone asked me, 'Are you the United States of America,' I would say yes because I would not lie to a question like that, certainly not to one of my own citizens. Apart from you and a few other people in the government, I generally keep that information to myself."

"Is it possible someone could have told Mr. Braxton your identity?"

"Like at a party, maybe?" Alfred guessed. "I suppose that could happen." President Buchanan did enjoy socializing with several wealthy ladies, several of whom supported the secessionist cause. The scene flashed before him. Someone in the government, maybe Buchanan himself, his tongue loosened by drink, told his identity to the hostess. The hostess told her contacts in South Carolina. The contacts told Braxton who sent the invitation, planning to trap him. And then what? Hold him for ransom? Threaten Mr. Lincoln until he gave into their demands? How devilish. A chill ran down his spine. But then, he thought, their plan would never work. It was not like they could threaten Alfred with death, and Mr. Lincoln was made of strong, unbendable stuff. He would not concede to their threats. No, if Braxton wanted to capture him, he would find the equivalent of hot iron resting in his hands.

All this did not solve Alfred's conundrum, however.

"Mr. Lincoln, what do you think I should do?"

Mr. Lincoln regarded the paper still clutched in Alfred's hand. "Well, Mrs. Lincoln would say that it would be rude to turn down such a politely worded invitation."

Alfred nodded. "You think I should go?"

Mr. Lincoln shook his head. "I did not say that, America. Ultimately, it is your decision."

"Yes, it is," he agreed. He took a deep breath. "On the one hand, there is the threat of running into a trap, and it seems strange to go to the birthday party of someone I have never met or heard of. I am also a little nervous about going to South Carolina at this time. But then, I know that if I do not go, I will always be curious about what this meant. Besides, I know that nothing could really happen to me. I will be fine."

"So what is your answer?"

Alfred put the invitation in his pocket. "I'm going." He grinned. "Thank you for talking it through with me."

"You are welcome, America." Mr. Lincoln regarded him curiously. "Why did you come to me with this, though? I generally am not the first person to approach with questions about the functions of society."

Alfred thought for a moment, trying to find the best way to phrase his answer. "Well Mr. Lincoln, I wanted to talk to someone who would have a definite opinion one way or the other. And I like talking to you. I feel like I can work things out when we discuss things. Anyway, you are my boss."

"No, I am not, not for almost three more months. President Buchanan is your boss, and he is much more versed in these matters."

Nudging some of the books and papers aside, Alfred sat on the edge of Mr. Lincoln's desk. "Oh I am sure Buchanan would have been very helpful. He'd tell me what to do, and that would be that. No talk, no discussion. Just accept, go, and do not offend anyone. I doubt he would truly know why this bothers me. I needed to talk with someone who really understands the problem; Buchanan never has." He ran a hand through his hair. "I suppose I shouldn't be so hard on him because he is a nice man, but he would rather avoid the problem instead of dealing with it. I don't need that right now. You do not hide from things, Mr. Lincoln, and you let everyone know what you think. So, I figured I would take the train out here to talk about it."

Mr. Lincoln fixed him with a slightly disapproving stare. His piercing eyes looked intimidating behind his spectacles. "You traveled from Washington to Illinois just because you needed to talk to me about a party invitation?"

Alfred decided the floor was much more interesting. "Actually I was in New York when it came in the mail. But yes, I did."

"I see." A corner of Mr. Lincoln's mouth twitched upwards. "I appreciate your great faith in me. I only hope I can somehow prove worthy of it."

"You already have. I know we are going to get along well, and I like you. Those are good things, Mr. Lincoln."

"It will certainly be an interesting four years." Mr. Lincoln sighed. "Still, your energy and enthusiasm in these times is encouraging. I will do my best to govern you and our people wisely."

"I can't ask for anything more," Alfred said.

Mr. Lincoln nodded. "Now, you probably should respond to that invitation and tell Mr. Braxton you will be coming."

"I will." Alfred hopped off the desk. "Thank you." He walked to the door, his heart feeling infinitely lighter. He stopped and turned back to the president-elect.

"I will be all right, Mr. Lincoln. You don't need to worry about me."

"It is my job now to be concerned about you, America, but I have no doubt that you will be fine."

.

Alfred stepped from the carriage, his hat in hand. His eyes widened as he took in the house in front of him. House was an understatement; this was a mansion. The three-storied brick structure towered above him. Pure white columns made him feel strangely small. Years had passed since he had visited a place like this. He glanced around. The gardens were still green and fresh. Alfred had nearly forgotten how mild the winters were here. There was an unusual atmosphere about the place, as if he was stepping into foreign territory. "But that is ridiculous," he told himself. This place was simply unfamiliar.

Placing a coin in the driver's outstretched hand, he nodded for him to move on. Alfred did not watch the carriage drive away. He geared up his courage and put his hat on his head. Elements of this world might be alien to him, but that was no reason for him to be afraid. He had received an invitation and accepted it. It was too late to turn back now. He stepped forward and knocked on the large wooden door. Suddenly, Alfred realized that the place seemed strangely deserted. If this was a birthday party, should there not be more guests? Yet his was the only carriage on the road. Unease stirred inside him. Perhaps this party was more than it seemed.

Within a minute, the door opened, revealing a black man in a dark suit. Alfred's mouth went dry. What was he supposed to say? With everything else on his mind, he had not thought about Braxton's slaves "Just treat him like you would anyone else," he told himself. He gave the man a wide smile.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Jones. Come in."

Alfred stepped inside the entry hall. He turned to the man. "You know who I am?"

"Yes, Mr. Jones. Mr. Braxton has talked a great deal about you."

Well that answered the question if Braxton had ever met him. Again, Alfred wracked his brain, trying to remember a face that he could tie to the name. None appeared. Who was this person? He looked around the room. He heard the sounds of dishes being moved and scurrying footsteps but no voices. Alfred licked his lips. "Where is everyone?" he asked. "I thought I was on time."

"You are the first to arrive, Mr. Jones. The others will be arriving in about thirty minutes."

"My invitation had an earlier time?" he asked, alarmed. This did not look good.

"Yes sir. I will take your hat and coat if you wish."

Alfred did not respond. Why had Braxton asked him to come at an earlier time? What did the man want? "You should leave," his mind told him. "You should get out of this place right now." There were too many secrets and too many unknowns. Whatever Braxton was planning, it could not be good. Alfred did not want to leave, though. His curiosity was too great. He had to know what was going on, even if could hurt him. He needed to know.

"Sir?" the man asked again, and Alfred realized he had not been listening to him. "Sir, may I take your hat and coat?"

"Oh." Alfred awkwardly held them out. "I can take care of them."

"Allow me." He took Alfred's hat and coat away. "Mr. Braxton should be down in a few minutes."

"Yes." A thought came to Alfred as he watched the man disappear down the hall. "Wait, what is your name?"

Surprised, the man stopped. He stared at Alfred for a moment. "My name is Benjamin, Mr. Jones."

"Benjamin," Alfred repeated. "Thank you." Benjamin nodded and hurried away, leaving Alfred alone. He stuck his hands in his pockets and waited.

The entry hall was elegant, classically decorated, and neatly organized. Alfred thought it was the type of place Arthur would comfortably live in. It was too much for him, though. He felt disconnected to this world of large mansions and fields of cotton, rice, and indigo. Reaching out, Alfred touched the molding on the walls. He wondered just how wealthy Braxton was. "Obviously very," he thought, "if this place and the land are any indication." He glanced around to see if there was anything, a portrait or even a photograph that could give a clue to his host's identity. Nothing. Only some watercolors of flowers and a portrait of Washington.

Alfred found himself admiring the painting of his first president. Washington looked back at him with a stern, and to Alfred, an inspiring expression. As if he was supporting Alfred's decision to remain and face whatever waited for him here. Despite himself, Alfred smiled.

"He was a great man. I respect him very much," a voice remarked. Alfred turned to see a man standing at the top of the staircase. His eyes widened. Every part of his mind began reeling, declaring this some sort of mistake or a manifestation of his stress. Alfred felt something stir inside of him, but he refused to acknowledge it. He stood frozen as the man descended the stairs, his fingers trailing lightly on the banister. "I apologize that I kept you waiting, sir. There is so much going on that the time slipped away from me." He stepped in front of Alfred. The man shared Alfred's height. Their statures were similar, although the man was slighter, more refined. He reminded Alfred of folded steel. Smiling graciously, the man extended his hand.

"I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Jones. I am Alexander John Braxton."

Alfred's fists clenched. He took in the slender face, the wavy blond hair parted on the left side, the dark blue eyes behind a pair of spectacles. He breathed in deeply as his insides twisted into knots. He wanted to look away, but he could not. He stared at his host, unsure of what to say or do before the words came falling out of his mouth.

"You do not exist."

Braxton inclined his head, his pale eyebrows drawing together slightly. "Do not exist? My dear Mr. Jones, I fear that the long trip must have tired you. Your mind is playing tricks on you. I do exist. I am flesh and blood, and I am standing in front of you now. Perhaps a little wine will soothe your nerves. I keep a decanter in the informal parlor. Come with me." He took Alfred's arm and led him into the next room. Alfred felt the shape of Braxton's fingers through the cloth of his jacket and shirt. He recoiled. If Braxton was offended, he said nothing. Stepping away from him, Braxton poured a dark, red liquid into two crystal glasses. He handed one to Alfred. "There you are. Please enjoy."

"Why did you invite me?" Alfred asked.

Braxton swallowed a sip of his wine. "Is it not right that I invite my own brother to my birthday party?"

Alfred shook his head. "I only have one brother." Matthew was up north and completely uninvolved in this mess.

Braxton shrugged. "That is what you think. Tell me, sir, how have you felt about the people in this region lately?"

"What do you mean?" If Braxton was asking what Alfred thought he was, Alfred would not give him the satisfaction of an answer.

"I mean what I asked. Do you feel them? Do you understand their hopes and dreams? Or are their voices silent for you? How long has it been that way?"

"The people of this region are my citizens, and they will always be so. That applies to every other state that decides to break away."

"I believe they would disagree with you on that," Braxton said. He gestured to the glass in Alfred's hand. "Why are you not drinking, sir? The trip from New York must have been exhausting, and the wine is very refreshing. I expect it must have been quite a shock to come down here. The winters are much softer than they are at your house." He smiled, as if an idea had just occurred to him. "I am only sorry you could not have come here during the spring. Everything is so lovely when the flowers start blooming. But I suppose we cannot choose when our people will band together, even if we do have a little more freedom to pick our birthdates than most." He laughed. "Please, Mr. Jones, drink."

"I am not thirsty," Alfred replied, handing the glass back to him.

"Oh. Oh well then. Is there something else I could get you, then? Dinner will be served soon, but maybe Rose can spare something to tide you over. I know what an appetite you have."

"How do you know that?" Alfred asked quietly.

"I am your brother, Mr. Jones. Why would I not know something like that?" Alfred had no reply. He watched Braxton warily, unnerved by how the man (because he would not call him anything else) had so much information about him.

"Stop saying that."

"Why? It is the truth. Shall I tell you all of my experiences? Jamestown? Cowpens? Texas? I can, if you wish, although it will take some hours, and I do not believe we have the time for that now. However, if you wish, I suppose we could…"

"I do not want to hear your long proof of history!" Alfred snapped. "I want to know what you want."

Braxton's eyes narrowed. "Typical Yankee," he murmured. Alfred made no comment. "If you do not know what I want, then you are more ignorant than I thought. If you are so curious, I advise you to open a newspaper and read for yourself. I am not in the mood to spell it out for you." The frown disappeared, replaced with a serene expression. "I am also not in the mood for harsh words. This is a celebration, after all."

Suddenly, they heard voices in the entry hall. Benjamin appeared at the doorway. "Mr. Braxton, the other guests have arrived."

"Excellent. Thank you, Ben." He turned to Alfred. "Shall we go greet them?" Alfred said nothing, but he followed Braxton to where a moderate sized group of people chatted together. His mouth dropped open when he saw them. Men and women of all ages, dressed fashionably and holding themselves with the same grace that Braxton had. It was strange seeing these people, and Alfred realized he felt no tug of familiarity, no bond, with them. It was as if they were not his people at all…Alfred quickly forced that thought out of his head.

The group caught sight of Braxton and instantly let out a round of polite applause. Braxton's face lit up. He stepped into the crowd of well-wishers, leaving Alfred standing awkwardly by himself. He watched as hands patted Braxton's back and shoulders. Braxton enthusiastically greeted every one of his guests.

"Happy birthday, Braxton!" a young man called out.

"Thank you, Francis."

A pretty girl approached him, a demure smile on her face. "A very happy birthday, Mr. Braxton." Her long, dark curls shifted as she spoke. Braxton took her hand and lightly kissed it.

"Miss Lucy, you get lovelier every time I see you. And I thank you." Lucy's cheeks flushed a delicate pink, and she withdrew her hand, adjusting the crotched shawl that hung around her shoulders.

"Oh!" Braxton exclaimed. Without warning, he reached back and pulled Alfred into the throng. "Everyone, I would like you to meet my brother. This is Alfred F. Jones." If the people thought their different names were strange, they did not react. More hands shot out, this time shaking his. He concentrated on their genial, welcoming faces, trying to find something he could latch onto. There was nothing, or if there was, it had faded long ago. This was worse than he had expected. Braxton's hand rested on his shoulder. Alfred wanted to push it off.

"You should have stayed home," his mind told him angrily. "Why did you let your curiosity get the better of you again?" He wanted to get out of here as fast as he could, but there was no way unless he made a scene. Alfred was not prepared to do that. Taking a deep breath, he tried to quiet the frightened, anxious voice in his head. He plastered a wide smile on his face.

"Pleased to meet you," he told them as courteously as he could.

"You are not from here, are you, Mr. Jones?" an older man asked.

Alfred shook his head. "No, I am not. I am from the North."

Another man chortled loudly. "You never told us you had a Yankee brother, Braxton!"

"There was never an occasion to mention it before," Braxton replied simply. He glanced at Alfred, an odd gleam in his eyes. "But we have spent enough time talking out here. Shall we all go to dinner?"

The evening passed in a blur for Alfred. Braxton led him and his guests into the formal dining room, where a rich dinner had been laid out for them. Each course was well prepared and filled with foods only an extremely affluent man could afford. Picking at his plate, Alfred found that his appetite had completely vanished. Each bite he took tasted like ash in his mouth. It was a shame to let such food to go to waste, but Alfred could not bring himself to care. The confusion and shock he had experienced when he first set eyes on Braxton settled down to a strong distrust. As he silently watched Braxton chat merrily with his guests, Alfred recognized repulsion bubbling up inside him. He did not try to quell the feeling. There were many things about this man that Alfred disliked. The way he practically lorded his knowledge of Alfred's personality over him. His flaunted wealth and genteel ways. That he was what he claimed to be. Alfred could not deny it any longer, and it unsettled him more than anything else.

Eventually, the ladies withdrew to another room, leaving the men with brandy and cigars. The smoke filled the air of the dining room. Alfred did not smoke or drink; he was not in the mood. Occasionally, he would catch Braxton's eye, who would grin or sometimes wink before returning to his neighbors. Braxton made no attempt to pull Alfred into the conversation, something Alfred was reluctantly grateful for. They discussed a number of topics Alfred could neither contribute to nor had any desire to: trade, their families, the production of their plantations and businesses, the current political situation. So, he kept quiet and hoped the evening would soon be over.

What was he going to tell Mr. Lincoln when he returned home? How was he going to explain exactly what Braxton was? He wished it was the day before, when he knew of only one brother, and he was content with that. Braxton's presence explained so much and promised that resolving the situation would be much more difficult than he or any of his leaders thought possible.

"Is everything well with you, Mr. Jones? You have scarcely said a word all evening," a concerned voice startled Alfred out of his thoughts. He looked up to see the young man he recognized as Francis smiling gently at him.

"Yes, I am all right," he responded too quickly. "I was just a little distracted."

Francis nodded understandingly. "I expect it must be strange being a Yankee in the South. Your friends probably were not thrilled when they found out you supported the Cause."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"That you supported the Cause." Francis looked confused. "You do support the Cause, do you not? I mean, I assumed, since you are Braxton's brother, and I do not know a greater supporter than him."

That caught Braxton's attention. Turning away from his other guests, he stared at Alfred. His dark blue eyes glistened with anticipation; he was eager to hear this. Alfred placed his hands flat on the tabletop said nothing for several minutes. He felt all the other men's eyes on him, waiting, but Alfred did not tear his gaze away from Braxton. How he wanted to tell this group of people just what he thought of their host and "the Cause". Still, he held his tongue.

"It is a very complicated issue," he finally stated.

"You think so?" Braxton replied immediately. "I have always thought it was incredibly simple."

Before Alfred could say any more, Benjamin entered. "There is a telegram for you, Mr. Braxton."

"Thank you, Ben." No one spoke as Braxton tore open the envelope. He read. A wide smile of pure joy gradually spread across his face. It was different from the affected smiles he had given Alfred. Alfred frowned, wary of what could have created such a change in Braxton's countenance. Braxton let out a loud, piercing, ecstatic yell. His neighbors gawked at him in shock.

"I am sorry for the outburst, gentlemen," Braxton apologized, his voice a little breathless. "But I have just received word that Texas has seceded from the Union!" Equally loud cheers filled the room. Alfred stood from the table. His heart pounded in his chest. Braxton waved the telegram like a flag.

"Ben! Benjamin! Bring in a bottle of champagne. And inform the ladies. Bring them in here! This is the best birthday present any man could ask for."

A few moments later, the women entered, happily embracing the men. Benjamin and a couple other slaves followed, carrying bottles and glasses on trays. They pulled off the corks with loud pops.

"Ladies and gentlemen, to the state of Texas!" Braxton declared.

"To Texas!" Delicate crystal glasses rose high in toast.

Alfred's head spun. He bit his lip hard. His stomach churned. He felt nauseas. Texas had left. Texas. His Texas. It did not seem so long ago when he had fought for the land. And now it was gone. It had gone and joined…_him_. How many did that make now? Seven. Seven of his states. Gone. He knew where Texas' people stood; that had been evident for years. But to hear that they had left in this of all places. It was too much.

"Mr. Jones, you're not drinking. Please." Braxton pressed a glass of champagne into his hand. Alfred glared at the golden, bubbly liquid. This was it. He could tolerate being here no longer. Without a word, he set the glass on the table and stormed out. He hurried to where Benjamin had probably placed the hats, coats, bonnets, and shawls. Alfred hoped he would not bump into anyone on the way; he had no desire to talk with anyone now.

Footsteps followed him. Alfred did not stop. "Mr. Jones," Braxton called. "I have to wonder what manners you learned if you leave a party without saying goodbye to the host. I thought England taught you better than that."

"Do not bring England into this," he muttered.

"Why? Does our current situation remind you a little too much of the past?" Alfred managed to find his outer garments hanging on the wall. With them in hand, he turned towards Braxton.

"You do not exist."

Braxton shook his head slowly. He stepped close to Alfred. "I must say the way you persist saying that makes me very concerned. As I said before, I am standing before you. I certainly feel as if I am real." He grinned wickedly. "Perhaps there is something wrong with your spectacles." He reached forward. Alfred grabbed his wrist before he could touch him. He gripped it hard.

"Don't touch me."

Braxton's eyes flashed. He wrenched his wrist out of Alfred's grasp. "Do not think you can control me, sir," he whispered, his voice low.

"I do not intend to."

"Then give me what I want."

"I can't."

Braxton nodded. "Very well, then. We will suffer the consequences."

"Perhaps." Alfred pulled on his hat and coat. He moved to the door.

"Good night, Mr. Jones. Will you not wait for me to send for a carriage?"

"No, thank you. I will walk."

"Are you sure? It is several miles to the city."

"I will walk."

"I see. Good night, again, Mr. Jones."

"Good night." Alfred stepped into the darkness. Braxton closed the door behind him. A chill had come with the evening air, making Alfred's skin prickle after so many hours in the warm house. He took in a deep, shuddering breath. The night's revelations whirled in his mind. Alfred tried to collect his thoughts, but he could focus on nothing. His brother. Texas. His states. Mr. Lincoln. What this meant for his people. Closing his eyes, he buried his face in his hands.

* * *

Notes:

After almost two years of planning, research, and drafting, I finally submit the first chapter of "Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory" for your reading pleasure.

Alexander is indeed the personification of the South, or as he'll later be known as, the Confederate States of America. In general, I've seen three different ways of interpreting the US Civil War in _Hetalia_ fics: 1) America experiencing mental trauma and schizophrenia, 2) the states have their own personifications, unite, and rebel, and 3) the South has its own personification. As you can see, the last one is the one I'm using, and it's the one that makes the most sense to me.

The fic's title comes from "The Battle Hymn of the Republic". This chapter title is inspired by a line from Oliver Wendell Holmes's "Brother Jonathan's Lament for Sister Caroline", which is a lament for the recently seceded South Carolina:

"_O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun,_

_We can never forget that our hearts have been one,_

_Our foreheads both sprinkled in Liberty's name,_

_From the fountain of blood with the finger of flame!_"


End file.
